January 2008

[Sweder]

The 13 bars of Almeria will tell me a lot.

Blimey, a bold prediction considering we're under escort

A second post-lurghie exploratory plod this morning. A full-on maelstrom greeted our fourteen-legged pack, the downs taking a fearsome battering out of the south east. Clouds streamed across leaden skies in that super-speed 'time passing' fashion often used in movies and rock videos. On the way home I spotted a gaggle of rooks playing some sort of daredevil game in the fields of Landport Bottom. They sat facing into the wind, taking turns to launch into the tempest to hover precariously until a mis-placed muscle twitch sent them tumbling backwards to rejoin their pals on the airstrip. After one particularly swift and flurrysome collapse I swear I heared muted cackling, the sound whipped away across the hills.

On arrival home both my arms were numb. So feirce was the wind I'd quite ignored the cold, right up to the point when I stopped waddling. Blood pumped furiously through dull white flesh, personal central heating in overdrive. I felt the first tingle of pins and needles in my fingertips just as Mrs S looked up from her tea and toast, a look of pure horror writ large on her face. 'You must be mad.' Fair point.

Another tough one but a good deal less ejectum, so things are looking up.